Heartbreak Beat Page 3

  “I saw exactly how you felt from the parade of reporters you invited to his funeral,” I snapped.

  His arm wrapped loosely around my shoulders, his voice low. “You’re a savvy young woman. You know why we had to do that.”

  “Yup, I know you are marketing the tragedy for all it’s worth,” I said, shrugging the arm off. “And now you need to capitalize on that work. Because covering their tour costs was a huge miscalculation.”

  “I don’t see it that way, Ms. Benson.”

  “Mr. Grimm, you and I both know that Rogue Nation is a mid-list band at best that will never be the hit machine that Anthem has been for your label.”

  “And you know this how? The wisdom of your years?”

  “I grew up around failed musicians, not successful ones,” I said, thinking about my own father, now working as a plumber somewhere in Maine. “That gives me a very different perspective.”

  “Yes, I expect it would.” His curious expression told me he was sizing me up, judging me. I steeled myself to keep from withering under his evaluating eyes. With a quick nod, he stepped out of the doorway and began walking down the stairs.

  I was about to close the enormous door when he came to an abrupt halt. He twisted back to look at me. “That said, Rogue Nation could be a great band. Even, yes, on par with Anthem. As long as you’re the one behind the kit. Think about that.”

  His small body continued down the steps without so much as a glance back. Good thing, too, because my mouth was wide open in shock, and it was impossible to close.

  3

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” A red-faced Dion paced the Aubusson carpet in the library before coming to a stop in front of me. “Why do we have to take Pamela’s brats out on tour with us? Haven’t we put up with enough shit from them?”

  “You can take that up with your manager,” I said, nodding toward Vince, who had remained silent during Dion’s extended tantrum.

  “What about us?” Jett chimed in. “You do realize I’ll have to drop out of this semester at UCLA, right?”

  “Hey, beanpole, you just got handed the opportunity of a lifetime,” Rafe said, arms crossed over his chest. “And you’re worried about college?”

  Jett pushed a few errant red curls behind her ear. “College is what smart people worry about. And I wouldn’t call traveling around with your dog and pony show much of an opportunity.”

  “What do you know about opportunity?” Rafe hurled at her. “You don’t even glance up from your damn books to see what’s around you.”

  “There’s more to life than your asinine band,” she snapped.

  “Yeah, big tits, wet pussy,” Rafe volleyed back. He and Dion shared a fist bump. Heat creeped its way up my face, and my double-crossed heart hurt at Dion’s womanizing ways.

  “Boys, please.” Vince followed his words with a weary sigh. “There will be plenty of tits and pussy on tour.”

  My eyes went to the ceiling. All three of them shared knowing smirks. Jett’s hands flew up in disgust.

  “But you need to get on the road to get some,” Vince continued. “Think of this as a means to an end.”

  “Maturity level of a twelve-year-old, and that’s the three of them combined,” Jett mumbled, snatching one of the leather-bound books off the shelf beside her. She flopped into a club chair, feet tucked up underneath her.

  I turned to Dion. “We are saving your tour. You think Grimm is happy at the prospect of losing millions of dollars?”

  “Our record sales will more than make up for it,” he said. His confidence was infuriating.

  “Not without a tour, son,” Vince said, finally speaking to reason and not their libidos. “You need the tour; the label needs the tour. And the tour needs Nikki. End of story.”

  “We don’t need the tour,” Jett muttered without looking up from the book.

  “Speak for yourself,” Presley said, breaking her uncharacteristic silence.

  Jett lifted her head. “You mean you don’t want to tour with Gold Dust?” One pale blue eye glared at Presley. A tumble of curls obscured the other. “You said singing with Stacy Mills was the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “It’s not like I get to duet with her,” Presley said, twirling the end of the ponytail that held back her thick golden hair. “I mean, it’s better to front my own band. Right, Vince?” She turned coquettishly toward our stepfather, knowing exactly how to play him.

  “Spot on, Pres,” he said. “This is an opportunity for all of you. Jett, you can always hit the books when you get back. UCLA isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Maybe you can take the classes online?” I suggested.

  “It’s not the same.” She looked between the hopeful expressions that Presley and I both shared. “But maybe.”

  “This is bullshit,” Dion raged, pointing a finger at me. “I am not touring with some little cocktease in my band.”

  “Way to be a sexist—” I started, but Vince cut me off.

  “Tread carefully, Dion,” he said. “Grimm said that if you flipped out over this, he’d replace you with Presley.”

  I thought Vince was joking. But that pissed Dion off even more. “Replace me? Everyone knows that I’m the reason fans love Rogue Nation.”

  Rafe narrowed his eyes. “You’re the reason?”

  I rubbed my face to hide a smug smile. Let’s see him get out of this one.

  “You know what I mean,” Dion started, but then he tossed up his hands. “Oh, Christ. Dad, come on, you can’t make us do this.”

  “Out of my hands,” Vince said. His own hands shot up as if to prove it. “The label’s on the hook for a lot of money. Nik knows the songs. Nik goes on tour.”

  “But, Dad, you can talk to Grimm—”

  “I did talk to Grimm,” Vince said. “And this is what he agreed to.”

  Dion rounded on me. “You do know why you even get to do this, right?”

  “Are you going to accuse us of nepotism?” I asked. “Because that’d be really freaking rich.”

  “No, I’m going to accuse you of using my father for your own gain.”

  Jett snorted.

  Rafe shook his head. “Dude. That’s the textbook definition of nepotism.”

  Dion turned to Vince. “It is?”

  Vince closed his eyes.

  “Think about how you landed a deal with Grimm Records after one shitty gig at the Whiskey a Go Go,” I said, my teeth gritted. “So I’d be very careful about who you accuse of nepotism.”

  “Kids, please.” Vince stood. He planted his hands on his hips and stared at his son. “Dion, you need a drummer, and your tour leaves in five days. Nikki’s the only one who knows the songs.”

  “You keep saying that,” Dion fumed. “How the hell does she know the songs, anyway? Are you, like, our number one fan or something?”

  My head swung to Vince. His eyes pleaded with me to keep mum about the album. But I’d held on to this secret for far too long. I was a damn good drummer, way better than Kyle when he was using. Hell, I might even have held my own with Kyle when he was sober.

  It was time Dion learned some hard truths.

  “Your label called me in because I am the best drummer for hire out there right now. Those are my beats on your album,” I said. Vince’s face fell. I didn’t care anymore. Dion needed this truth bomb. “Every. Single. Song.”

  Dion raked his fingers through his curls. “Kyle was our drummer on the album.”

  “Kyle was so damn high he couldn’t lay down the drum tracks. Maybe if you had paid more attention to what the hell was going on with him, you’d have noticed that!”

  Presley sucked in her breath, and even Jett looked up from her book. Rafe gawked at me. Vince looked shattered. Dion’s beautiful face twisted in pure fury.

  The only sound in the room was the ticking grandfather clock. Dion turned and stormed out, with Rafe nipping at his heels.

  “That was way out of line, Nik,” Vince said, his voice a near whisper.

  He
glared at me, hands on his hips, waiting for me to issue an apology. I bit one back. What I said was harsh, but it was the truth. And I would not apologize for telling the truth simply because the truth wasn’t something they were used to hearing. When Vince saw that he wasn’t going to get anything out of me, he followed Rafe and Dion out of the room.

  Presley rolled her eyes at me. “Would it kill you to learn a bit of tact?”

  “It’s the truth,” I argued.

  “Too soon, hon,” Jett said, agreeing with our sister. “It’s been, what? Three months since the funeral?”

  “Dion and Rafe both had their heads up their own asses, and didn’t even notice how wrecked Kyle was,” I said.

  “Dion and Rafe had their heads in groupie ass, that’s where their heads were,” Jett corrected.

  “Grimm Records and Vince yessed Kyle literally to death, and Dion and Rafe were just as culpable,” I continued. “It’s about time they were told something honest.”

  “Vince was trying to take care of it, getting Kyle into rehab before the tour,” Presley said, glaring at me. “You hurt him just now. You hurt him.”

  “Why do you always take Vince’s side?”

  She pursed her lips. “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do,” I argued.

  “Jett?” Presley turned to our sister, who shrugged.

  “You do,” she agreed.

  “Well, he’s the only one in the room who’s had a lucrative music career, so who do you think is the best person to listen to?”

  “I’m just saying—” I started, but then thought better of it. Presley gravitated toward successful men, not unlike our mother—once Mom cut loose from our dad, that is. But at least Presley was career focused, and not trying to bag a golden goose.

  “The point is, we need to stick together,” I said. The less confrontational, the better. “This tour’s going to be rough, especially for me. Stepping behind Kyle’s kit, in a spot where I’m not wanted?”

  Two sets of eyes hit me with sympathetic looks. “Nik, you will be playing two sets in a row,” Jett said. “You sure you can handle that physically?”

  “I go to CrossFit.”

  Jett laughed. “I’m no expert—”

  “Clearly,” Presley said with an eye roll.

  “—but I don’t think it’s the same,” Jett finished, flipping Presley off at the same time.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I drum for hours during session work.”

  “It’s different, Nik,” Presley said, her ponytail bouncing over her shoulders as she shook her head. “Big venue verses cramped studio? It’s, like, two different ways of playing.”

  “This could be a serious break for Satan’s Sisters. The exposure at Outside Lands alone will be off the hook,” I said, referring to the big outdoor music festival in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, where Rogue Nation was kicking off their tour. “We’re good enough to open for them. No, we’re good enough to headline. We can’t pass this up.”

  “Nik will be playing with two of the biggest assholes on the planet,” Jett pointed out. “At least we won’t have to interact with them on a daily basis like she will.”

  “I’ll give you that.” Presley sighed. “Sorry for being a bitch. Forgive me?” She flashed me a mock pout.

  “If there was ever a bitch to forgive, it’s you,” I teased, and then she rushed me. Before I could get out of her way, she planted a giant kiss on my cheek, leaving a pink lipstick outline on my face. Jett howled with laughter.

  “You think that’s funny?” Presley teased Jett. “You're next!”

  Jett jumped out of her chair, but I tackled her, holding her still while Presley slobbered all over her.

  We collapsed onto the antique rug in hysterics. When we finally stopped laughing, we lay on the floor, arms intertwined.

  “I love you guys and shit, but I have to give up school,” Jett said. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Take a leave of absence,” I said. “You can go back next semester.”

  “Come on, Jetty-Jett-Jett,” Presley cooed. “Come out and play with us on tour.”

  Jett groaned. “Seriously?”

  “You’re the only holdout,” she said. “I’m down with it.”

  “So, you’ll give up the Gold Dust tour, but what about all your backing vocals contracts?” Jett asked.

  “They’re Grimm contracts, so I am sure we can work something out. Or I can record them on the road,” she said. “Vince is flying out to some of the gigs. We can find studios when he’s in town. If Nik can play with Rogue Nation and Satan’s Sisters on the same bill, I can do some studio work.”

  Jett scrunched up her face. I knew that scrunch. She was close to caving.

  “Please, Jett? It’s just this tour,” I pushed gently. “Grimm’s grooming Presley for stardom. You have school. All I have is Satan’s Sisters. I need to make a go of this.”

  “But you’re on the album—”

  “Not credited,” I pointed out. “This is my shot. I get out there, get heard, maybe get more gigs. Please?”

  Presley joined in the cajoling. “We haven’t been on tour in a long, long time. It may be fun.”

  “We’ve never been on tour,” Jett said.

  “I mean when Mom used to drag us around,” she said. “Not us as a band.”

  Jett groaned. “Touring with Mom? That was not fun. At all.”

  “It’ll be different this time,” I promised. “Mom was a groupie hauling around three kids. Now, we are the opening act. We’ll get treated better.”

  “Hope so,” Presley said. “You were too little to deal with that shit, but I remember ducking lecherous old roadies. Being sixteen, most of them thought I was the groupie, not Mom.”

  “Devlin wasn’t like that,” I said. Devlin was the tour manager for Anthem and one of the best human beings on the planet. He used to give me Doritos or Pringles and ice-cold sodas from the hotel minibars. My eyes would go wide, because my mom never allowed that stuff. You don’t want to get fat, she’d sneer at my stocky build.

  “Devlin was the bomb,” Jett agreed. “He used to buy me books. Loads and loads of them.”

  “You mean he stole books,” I corrected her. “He stole them out of the libraries in each city we passed through.”

  “Still, it was more than anyone else did for me,” she said.

  “Devlin was a prince,” Presley said. “But I remember more assholes on the road than guys like Devlin. He was not the norm.”

  “Yeah, but this time it’ll be different,” I repeated, as though it was more a fact than a promise.

  “It should be,” she agreed. “I mean, wow. Our first tour. That’s pretty cool.”

  Jett groaned. “Guys, what if we become famous?”

  Presley punched her in the arm. “You say that like it’s a bad thing!”

  Jett punched her back. “I’ll never get my damn degree.”

  “Famous people go to college all the time,” I said. “What about at that actress who played Hermione in the Harry Potter movies? And she went to an Ivy League university to boot.”

  “She went to Brown,” Jett said.

  “That’s an Ivy.”

  “Barely,” she sniffed.

  “We’re only young once,” Presley said. “You can go to college when you don’t have the stamina to play anymore.”

  “And think of how great this will be for your writing,” I said, hoping our enthusiasm would rub off. “You’ll get so much material by traveling around, seeing the world.”

  “You mean the Pacific Northwest and flyover country,” Jett corrected. Grimm didn’t want Rogue Nation anywhere near the East Coast until he thought they were ready for New York and all the pressure that went along with the NYC critics.

  “Whatever,” Presley said. “More poems mean more songs.”

  “Fine, fine, fine,” Jett said, folding her arms across her chest, frown on full display. “Look. I’m excited. Yay.”

  Presley rolled her eyes. “You
’ll come around, you’ll see.”

  “But can we at least make a deal to stay far away from our stepbrothers? They are trouble with a capital T,” Jett warned.

  “Agreed. We don’t need no stinking boys anyway.” I laughed.

  “Speak for yourselves.” Presley sighed. “It’s been so long for me, I think I’m falling in love with my vibrator.”

  We dissolved into giggles. Satan’s Sisters was going on tour. This could be a life changer.

  4

  Nirvana’s classic album In Utero hummed in the background. I cradled my cell phone while picking through my closet, trying to decide what to bring with me. Old concert T-shirts seemed like a tour staple, so I tossed a few of them into the open suitcase on my bed.

  The voicemail beeped.

  “Hey, this is Nikki Benson, apartment four. My AC is choking out tepid air. And… just my luck, LA is in the middle of a heat wave.” I chuckled awkwardly into the phone. God, I hated leaving messages. “Anyway, if someone could come look at this, like, ASAP, I’d really appreciate it.”

  I left my number. My face was sweating when I pulled my phone away. I took off the towel turban wrapped around my wet hair and used it to wipe my cheeks. Water from my hair soaked into the back of my silk robe, a small bit of relief. Monsoon season in Southern California meant muggy weather, even by the beach, so I doubted opening a window would be any better than the indifferent air the in-wall units were chugging out. Thanks, climate change!

  I turned up the music on my Bose speaker and faced off with my closet again. Drumming in jeans sucked. I preferred cutoffs or, if it was chilly, leggings. (I know, I know, leggings aren’t pants. But when you’re sitting behind a drum kit for over an hour under hot lights pounding out beats, comfort trumps fashion sense. Every. Single. Time.) I tossed a bunch of yoga pants in the general direction of my suitcase.

  Loud knocking interrupted my flow. I tightened my short silk robe around me and raced to the door. My message must have gone to an on-call maintenance guy. Did the building have one of those? They were shoving so much information at me when I signed the lease, I didn’t process it all.